


photographs, worn but well-loved

by ohmymaple71



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Adopted Children, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Domestic, Established Relationship, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Headcanon, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Multi, Post-Canon, Song Lyrics, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, im weak but god i cant stop writing, this is a comp of unfinished work, we stan unorganized google docs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 12:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17425883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmymaple71/pseuds/ohmymaple71
Summary: And there, smiling up at me, are faces I know with names I remember.- - - -Unfinished prompts from my Google Docs that I might finish, but mostly want to just share whether or not they do get finished. Tags and the like will update- rated Explicit because some of them were lead ups or vaguely referenced smut. Notes will give context or projected plans.





	1. cinnamon hearts, made to melt

**Author's Note:**

> I've never really gotten the whole abo thing, like... it's never made sense to me, but I know once I read a really, really soft, no-smut fic with it and I wanted to try my hand at it. I don't know if I planned where this was going to go or not, but here we are with a grimmons, because I'm predictable and love red team

The scent hits Grif the second he steps in, all clean laundry and cinnamon, thick and heavy, and he’s barely dropped his work bag into its regular spot before his gut is flipping. His own senses are on high alert, even though he knows, rationally, that he’s the only alpha around. This is, after all,  _ their _ apartment and Simmons isn’t the type to let his heat make him open-game.

 

It’s as if Grif can’t get enough air in his lungs, his inhales deep and he can’t toe his shoes off fast enough, can’t drop his jacket over the back of the kitchen chair easily enough because he can  _ feel _ Simmons’ need from here. All thoughts about dinner are out the window, thoughts about what movie to curl up to tonight dissipated because Simmons  _ needs _ him and while Grif can be surprisingly good at keeping a level head it’s so  _ hard _ to when all he can smell is his boyfriend.

 

“Simmons?” He calls, and his breath catches as he does so, Grif rounding the corner to peer into the living room of their apartment. All he sees are ruffled pillows, the throw blanket tangled on the floor with a book. “Babe?”

 

He’s not worried. They’ve been expecting this, planning ahead because the last cycle had caught them off-guard and it was easier to plan around it than to change plans. He knew Simmons was here, could assume that his omega had holed himself up in the bedroom like most did when their heats hit. 

 

That, of course, did nothing to lessen the instinctive need to confirm, to find him and mix their scents, press his nose to Simmons neck and inhale as much as he could. To  _ mark _ him, cover this delicious scent with his own to warn off any other alpha from him. To claim, to mark as his own, to  _ own _ Simmons, which he knew was just the alpha brain talking.

 

They were equals, always had been. Their status didn’t define them. Had never defined them, not in all the years they’d known each other.

 

That didn’t change the growl that pulled itself from Grif when he moved to open the bedroom door, when the scent grew stronger, grew less distressed now that Simmons could so clearly smell Grif, too. The heat building made him feel protective, and seeing the bed stripped save for his boyfriend, that was definitely doing it for him. It definitely had the effect their biology was supposed to, and when Simmons looked up, all red beneath his freckles and shining with sweat and slick, Grif growled once more.

 

_ “Alpha,” _ Simmons’ voice was breathy, rough. He whined, twisted, arched himself from the bed to display pale skin, to try and tempt Grif into joining him. His pupils were blown, only thin rings of that beautiful green visible and Grif felt his heart twist. Simmons had been in heat for a few hours, if he wasn’t comprehending anything past Grif’s presence being an alpha. It wasn’t as if he could have known, it wasn’t like they were mated, but it made his heart twist to think about him here, all alone and flushed so pretty.

 

_ “Alpha,” _ A whine, now, and Simmons was wiggling, hips pushed into the air and swaying, tempting, and Grif couldn’t take his eyes off the way he moved, how his chest heaved for breath. Simmons was gone, and Grif had long since hardened himself, and Simmons didn’t need to tempt him, it wasn’t as if anything could keep him away from him, not like this, not ever. Grif was at the mercy of Simmons, had been from the moment they’d locked eyes, had known that he couldn’t say no to this man easily. “Alpha, Alpha--  _ Alpha, please _ \--”

 

Shucking his shirt off, hearing it land somewhere on the floor (Simmons would complain about it later, when his heat had receded for a while), Grif barely registered the distinctly happy sound from Simmons, the way thin hands joined him in helping rid him of his belt, his jeans, how they moved directly to pulling at his underwear, how they were accompanied by the prettiest mewls he’d ever heard.

 

And Simmons, god, if Simmons wasn’t the prettiest thing. Didn’t make the prettiest noises, flush making his freckles stand out and his curls in a state of frizzy disarray

 

He’d take care of his omega. He’d alleviate Simmons’ need, give him everything he wanted and more because Simmons was  _ his _ omega, and Grif knew he slacked in a lot of things but he could never slack in this.

  
  


\-----

 

Later, when Simmons doesn’t look as fever-flushed and they’re tangled up together, he meets Grif’s eyes and smiles. Presses a soft kiss to Grif’s neck, gentle and fluttering above his scent glands, lingering for a moment not to arouse but to simply exist, and Grif would shift, wiggle his shoulders so he could get the leverage to press a kiss to the top of Simmons’ head, nose staying nestled in soft red curls, and he wished he had the words to explain what the feeling was that washed itself over him. 

 

But Grif was not a man of words, he was a man of action, and his action was simply to close his eyes. He'd figure it out later, when sleep wasn't pulling at the edges of his consciousness.


	2. do not tell me all is fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this after a talk with a friend, and I don't remember at all where I was going with it but it flowed nicely at 2am so I can't really be too upset. Mostly the premise is nork, but safe and happy, if Project Freelancer disbanded or did literally anything but fall apart like in canon. Really, if anything this makes me want to write a York introspective- he was one of my favourite characters during the Freelancer Arc, and I think he has a lot of interesting aspects and facets to his character that are ignored in favour of the goofier ones.
> 
> Title and lyrics are from Mumford and Son's Hopeless Wanderer, btw.

_I wrestled long with my youth_

_We tried so hard to live in the truth_

_But do not tell me all is fine_

_When I lose my head, I lose my spine_

 

\---

 

In the end, North and York were small things.

 

They were the way the sun peered through the blinds, lazy and warm in the afternoon while they lay tangled together, breath slow and faces flushed, and they were the reds that poured long and lazy over the floor of the livingroom in the evening, the way the streetlight across the road slipped underneath the blinds.

 

They were the small things. The important things. They were found in the warmth of fresh laundry, the way York’s face lit up with laughter and the way North hummed along to the radio. The little things, the things that were easy to forget but that made life so worth living, that made things matter. The daffodils on their dining room table, a vase that York had found and North kept filled. The way the curtains stirred when a summer breeze blew through them, the matching smiles worn when it rained.

 

God. The _rain_ , it was… wonderful. It was something they’d missed, hadn’t _realized_ they’d missed until it was back. In space, they didn’t have rain. They had asteroid storms, sure, but not rain, never rain.

 

The first storm had happened nearly two weeks after they’d moved in, and York had stood in the front yard grinning at the sky til North had come home, had pulled him onto the porch at least to stop the worried looks their neighbor had been shooting him. York said he wouldn’t have stood there that long, but when North had pulled him down to sit on the bench and wrapped his arms around him, he’d felt him smile against his lips and that was enough of an answer for the both of them.

 

It was good to be here. To be with each other. To be on Earth.

 

York had never been there for long, had grown up on a colony just outside Messier, but he’d taken to Earth just like North had expected he would- with noise, and laughter, and supplements he hated taking.

 

It made it worth it, they thought, when things were light and free and _good_ , to have been a part of the Project. It almost made the loss worth it, the fear, the pain, the shadows that still lingered in the corners like cobwebs, that crept up like dust bunnies.

 

Summer was good. It was full of settling and unpacking, kisses full of laughter and adapting to life with regular gravity again, with neighbors and _people_ and making their own schedules. They’d had enough between them to not worry about work, those first few months; honourable discharges, decorated for being of help to the government, compensation for the fact that the Project had been shut down and they’d been subjected to the twisted schemes the Director had planned.

 

Fall was...alright. It wasn’t as beautiful, wasn’t as full of joy. It had been September when North had picked up a job, gotten a position in a nearby library, came home with a smile on the first day and a story about the children who had stopped in. York hadn’t worried too much, had picked up oddjobs here and there, settled with a feeling of contentment to listen to North’s stories and ignored the twist in his chest. If he ignored it, he didn’t need to remember the last time he’d been so invested in listening to someone’s voice.

 

That week, he pretended that he didn’t have trouble getting back to sleep, brushed off North’s sleep-rough questions with a cup of coffee and a grin. He couldn’t be lonely if he didn’t let himself feel it, and he couldn’t feel it if he didn’t sleep and remember what he’d lost.

 

North stopped bringing new facts home with him, and York was thankful for it.

 

In the winter, things were quiet. They had a routine, a set-up; they’d even gotten to know some of their neighbors more, made… friends, almost. Friends who hadn’t been touched by war, or death, whose biggest concern was whether or not the Bruins would beat the Canadiens in the semi-finals this year, and it was… good? Weird. Nice, in some ways, but harder in others; York had learned quickly that he’d have to bite his tongue more than he ever had before.

 

When your neighbors weren’t military, hadn’t been manipulated by their superiors, hadn’t had another being inside them… well. It made some jokes fall a little flat, had had one of them pull North aside to ask if York was alright. York vetted his jokes more after that, kept them strictly water-cooler at the next get-together.

 

North, helpful as ever, gave him a joke book for Christakkuh.

 

York, who loved him dearly but felt like the cultural history book he got North wouldn’t stand up, turned the stove off when the blonde was cooking breakfast and bemoaned the bruises on his knees against North’s thigh.

 

The New Year came and went; they got a dog, big girl with too much fluff that kicked them out of their own bed at least three nights a week but was always the first to know when something was wrong. York got a job, too, the thoughts in his head keeping him up too much to not have anything to occupy his hands with, and everytime he came home with engine oil coating his face and arms he felt a little more like he used to.

 

Things were good. Kind of, a little bit, in their off-kilter way and when they weren’t good they would get there. They had to.

  
  
  



	3. newton york is a good dad, actually

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're gonna see a lot of york here, i love that boy very much. This is actually a self-para I put into an RP server with friends, the context of it is it's a modern day AU. Nobody did Freelancer/Sim Trooping, and AI fragments are children. York had a criminal background but mostly works as a freelance locksmith/volunteers with foster kids since he grew up bouncing around the system. Any reference to North or Teddy/Theodore is a reference to North and Theta bc nork is alive and well, thanks. Danny/Daniel is Delta, he's like 11
> 
> In this, York adopts Delta fully. He practices Hanukkah not because he was born or raised Jewish, but because the foster parents he connected with the most were Jewish, so he does it to honour them. Newton York is bc I think it's fucking hilarious for him to be named something like Newton and then have the initial N.Y without ever having been to New York

The day had started early, energy buzzing like electricity through the veins in his body, jolting him awake and out of bed, to varying degrees of successful decorations and preparation for The Moment. It had to be important, it had to be big, and warm, and as full of love as he could make it but blue wasn’t a very good colour for that and also York didn’t typically celebrate if there wasn’t people around to bring him into decorating and the only reason he was celebrating Hanukkah this year was _because_  of factors that weren’t his own doing but this was… this was important.

 

So York had set the menorah up careful, nimble fingers wreathing and setting it up with tinsel and these little snowflakes he’d found a few weeks ago for Christmas but, like, close enough, right? Each little candle in it’s little slot, maybe he should have checked about the colours again instead of just using the stripey birthday candle ones he had, but it was alright. They only needed to be lit for a little bit, he wasn’t going to risk fire by keeping them alight as long as he remembered his parents doing. Little concessions, he supposed.

 

He’d said the same thing when his moms had given him the menorah when he’d gotten back to the States, little concessions, never truly planning on using it. It was a borrowed religion, not quite his, but it was familiar, and now there were people he loved outside his parents who needed it, too.

 

But that was in the morning, and it wasn’t morning, and the day had gone faster than York ever thought a day could and _that_ was saying something, considering he rarely had a grasp on time as it was, but this was _i_ _mportant_  and before he knew it York was stealing through the half-done arch between apartments, searching out Danny. Finding matches, murmuring the little rhyme he remembered because it felt right, more than he thought of it being any real Hannukah tradition, and then it was… it was time.

 

Ruffling the kid’s hair where he’d sat at their little table, York pretended he didn’t have worry bubbling into his chest, like his excitement wasn’t making every motion feel jerky, and he laughed at the grumbling he got in return. Down the hall, to the left. Into the closet, the box he’d put together with everything he was going to give his boy, the book carefully placed on top and this was it. York hesitated a moment, book in his hands. Checked the envelope, that it was tucked into the book still, that the inscription he’d added hadn’t somehow smeared, melted away. As if pen did that, as if he wouldn’t still open it up and right above the pictured title it wouldn’t read in careful strokes _’Dee, tell me what the best part is. Love, Dad’._  It was silly. He needed to stop worrying.

 

Taking a breath, York turned around and moved back with careful, measured steps. Back to the table, grin at Danny when he turned around, and pull his chair up close. Tuck his phone out of his pocket and settle the book carefully onto his lap, cover down. Inhale. Exhale. Grin.

 

“So,” He began, prompted by the curious gaze of his boy. “Since this is your first Hanukkah I wanna record it all, keep it nice and special like a memory video or something, cool?” A blink, and then his boy was raising an eyebrow. God, York loved that kid. “Don’t give me that look!”

 

“Don’t word it that weird then, jeez!” Laughter was seeping into his tone, though, and York wasn’t gonna reprimand him when the kid was smiling. He lived to see that grin, specially since it’d become such a common sight for him. That meant he had to move through this, though. “...York? Are we gonna sit here all night?”

 

Oops.

 

“Nah, not when you’re waiting, bud.” Carefully, then, he passed the book over, keeping his boy in the frame of the phone video as he did. “Open that up, ok? Want you to read through what you find before you read the book.” This was it. 

 

Watching this happen, York felt, for once, that time had slowed down. He watched Delta’s nimble little fingers turn the book over carefully, taking in the title, the artwork, lips moving as he read the name, the author. Watched how reverently the kid handled the book, like it was a precious object instead of a hardcover, and when he set a thumb to the side of the cover to flip it open, York’s heart did double-time in his chest. 

 

Slowly, ever so slowly it seemed, the cover lifted. Delta glanced up at York once, as if checking to see that this was what York wanted from him, before he looked down again, eyes skimming the page. Copyright stuff, blank page, turn it over and- there it was. 

 

Daniel’s posture changed minutely, but immediately. His typical straight posture seemed to sag a little, breath catching, and he looked up at York again, eyes wide. His lips moved, but no words came out, mind spinning too fast for the moment and York couldn’t keep the grin off his face, couldn’t help how rough his voice sounded when he spoke.

 

“Keep going, Dee, there’s more.” 

 

Head bowed once more, Daniel let a finger trace over where the pen was, swallowing thickly, before flipping, skimming, waiting until the book fell open on its own to explain what York meant by more. To find the envelope, tucked into a specific page (later, lit by the lamp by his bed he’d find out it was the page in which the child was adopted), and to hesitate again. Hand hovering, shaking, one more glance up to York to make sure this wasn’t a joke, some kind of twist but no, no, his foster just nodded. Delta could see the tears from here. Felt his own throat tightening up, chest unreasonably restricted and when he exhaled again it was shaking. 

 

He picked the envelope up with careful fingers, shaking fingers. Nearly dropped it, felt the book slide and readjusted it because he didn’t- he didn’t want to put it on the table. Even if it was ridiculous it felt like if Daniel stopped touching the book, put it on the table, that it would stop this happening. Like it would cease the moment. So, instead, he kept it carefully on his lap, and pulled the tab out of the envelope to get to the papers inside. Delta thought he could hear the blood in his ears, as if every rustle of paper was an earthquake happening in front of him. 

 

The first page he pulled out looked crumpled. Just a little around the edges, on the side of it. It wasn’t pristine, not like new paper tended to be and that… made sense. Daniel didn’t think anything from York was allowed to be pristine. He opened it at the fold, squeezed his eyes shut for a second. They were burning. York sniffled where he was, but when Delta opened his eyes again he felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him. It… was an official document. It was an official document, and Daniel couldn’t read very well anymore, but he could make out York’s signature near the bottom, could make out his name somewhere in the middle, and the breath was leaving him in a whoosh before he knew it. 

 

“...I’m- I’m adopted?” He managed, a tiny little voice with a tight throat and harsh breath, and York broke, then, too. He was gathering his boy-- his _son_ in his arms before he realized it, feeling those little hands curl tightly into his shirt as he did so, grip with all their might onto him and York pulled him just as tightly against him. Pressed his face into his hair, spread kisses across his head, book pressed uncomfortably between them as the two buckled with emotion.

 

“Yeah, baby-- yeah,” York responded, voice quiet compared to his usual tone. Raw. “You’re adopted, you’re-- I’m gonna look after you,” A kiss to Daniel’s head. “And protect you,” Another, and he moved an arm from around his son’s shoulders to his back, pressed them together more tightly. “Forever, sweetheart, ok? I’m no-- I’m not gonna let you go, not til you’re big eno-- enough, ok?” More kisses, and York pressed his face into Daniel’s hair, rubbed circles into his back as the boy in his arms shook.”I love you, Daniel, I love you so much, so so much--” Another kiss, and when Danny pushed his face into the crook of York’s neck, cheeks as wet as York’s he shifted to let him. 

 

Afterwards, once the rush was finishing, the tears were less consuming, Danny was the one to push away. He didn’t push too far, just enough to look at York, meeting his red-rimmed eyes with his own and knowing he was matching his foster-- his _parent’s_ grin and asked, softly, gently, as if speaking too loud would break this spell a simple question. Easy.

 

“Can-- I can… Can I call you dad?” 

 

And York, with all the grace he could muster having cried for nearly twenty minutes with his son, simply kissed Danny’s cheeks, wiped away his son’s tears with his thumbs and pulled him into a hug again, swaying them once more even as his whisper broke.

 

“Absolutely, baby. Absolutely.”


	4. five times newton york was told no, and one time he had to tell himself no, kind of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this also came from the same au as the previous chapter- in it, North and York were best friends in high school, dated actually (though York was such an oblivious "IM STRAIGHT BRO" bi that he didn't know until later) and it's lead up was to do with drama my friend and I were RPing out at the time. 
> 
> Mostly it deals with York's shitty impulse control and inability not to flirt or love people fully and without fear.

Contrary to popular belief, one of York’s favourite things to be told was ‘no’. Plain and simple, it was just something he liked to hear, because York was so rarely told ‘no’ in the context that it mattered, because normally? Normally it was boring ‘no’.

 

It was always: “No, Newton, we don’t lock other students in the bathroom just because we can,” or “No, York, nobody wants to hear that story again,” or, when that had been his line of work, “Manhattan, no, stop reading the fucking plaques and get us inside!”

 

See? Boring. 

 

And see, the thing with being told ‘no’, was that it mattered to him. It wasn’t something he heard often enough, because York had a way with people. A way with words, if you will, and see, he  _ knew _ that. He knew he made it hard to say no, and that should be a dream. People don’t say no, and he gets to do what he’d like, and if things get ugly? Well, he  _ was _ good at infiltration, even if it was less than legal, and it wouldn’t be the first time York had slipped out unseen.

 

But the point was, nobody said no to him. And while that was good mostly, sometimes it kind of sucked. York didn’t have a good sense for boundaries, rarely thought about these sort of things because his body moved faster than his brain did a lot, just like his mouth, and while he only remembered this  _ after _ the fact it didn’t change the fact that he’d made a lot of people uncomfortable. People he cared about.

 

And that made him uncomfortable.

 

York did not like to feel uncomfortable. Nobody liked to feel uncomfortable, but the last thing he wanted to do was make someone  _ else _ feel uncomfortable, and that was a big problem because York was an affectionate person who had a lot of love to give.

 

Like, a  _ lot. _

 

Think more partners and flings than he could count, but only a handful of long-term relationships, which by his calibre were more than six months but under a year, and with that in mind he could tell you exactly how many  _ real _ relationships he’d had, dates and all. 

 

And of course, nobody believed that. Because York was York, and he’d get huffy if somebody called him by his name, so there was no way he could ever, like, make someone else feel bad, right?

 

-

 

Now see, the first thing anyone should know about York was he was never really around too much. He was a system kid, got moved around a lot because families would have more space or grouphomes had an opening, and sometimes that meant he’d be uprooted in the middle of the school year. This happened a lot. 

 

This did  _ not _ happen the year he started highschool. For the first bit, at least. 

 

And that’s when he’d met Josephine. Not the first girl he’d gotten a crush on, and definitely not the last, but the most memorable person he’d dated the entire four years he spent in high school. She’d been quiet, and passive, mostly. Tall, with such pretty dark hair and eyes, and the moment he’d been introduced to her in their shared homeroom York had  _ known _ he had to befriend her.

 

And he had. It wasn’t the easiest thing, sure, and even at fourteen he’d been aware that he himself didn’t make it any easier, because he was loud and outgoing, and he said stupid shit and sometimes he got himself into scraps or trouble for being where he wasn’t supposed to, but that was just who he was. York couldn’t change that anymore than he could change the fact that he’d never met his parents, or that his name was fucking  _ Newton _ . It just was something he’d have to adapt to if he wanted Josephine to do more than  _ sometimes _ laugh at his jokes in homeroom, and York was nothing if not stubborn.

 

So, he started asking her questions. Casual, about homework or classes, and he softened himself when he did. Ignored his friend’s call from across the room, walked with Josephine through the cafeteria instead of finding one of many tables he was welcomed at. Read some of the books she’d had with her, to at least try and see what she liked.

 

And it had worked.

 

She’d smiled at him more, started asking questions of her own, and once, one day, she snorted in her laughter. York, fourteen and stupid, swore he felt his heart stop. 

 

He’d have sworn it was love, that Josephine would be who he spent the rest of his life with, but he’d always had a flair for the dramatic. 

 

His roommate, though, just told him to shut up because he was trying to sleep.

 

\---

 

When she told him ‘no’, well and truly, it was… something. Josie had been quiet, usually, had taken a lot of getting to know before she'd even spoken up to say hello, and it took him by surprise for a minute. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the other cases were in this list but honestly idr
> 
> 2\. Lewis and Elijah  
> 3\. carolina  
> 4\. Adrian  
> 5\. Wash  
> 6\. north


	5. the sun is the same in a relative way, but you're one day older (shorter of breath and one day closer to death)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u didnt know im fucking docington trash its still one of my fave ships even tho i literally never write it : / 
> 
> this was a like. kind-of smut? I can never write super explicit stuff it's always vague like this idk why, sorry. Anyway I think the setting for this was established relationship and? maybe???post canon????
> 
> I'd like to turn this into something else, eventually. A walkthrough of their relationship, maybe, or morph it into an AU. I want more docington content but as soon as I remember I'm the one who would have to write it I forget cause I'm a dumbass gay

Usually, they took time with this. Time, and care, and gentleness, meaningful little things. Did their best to make it loving, and yet… Sometimes they didn’t. Doc didn’t mind. Wash didn’t mind, either. 

 

Sometimes what they needed wasn’t what they usually did, and sometimes what they needed was quick and fast and rough, and this was one of those ‘sometimes’. One of those sometimes that had Doc pressing Wash against the door of the apartment as soon as it shut, that had Wash sighing in that soft little way he had, the one that made Doc want to pull it into his soul, keep the sound safe because it was  _ his _ sound. It was a sound Wash only made for  _ him _ and yet, and yet and  _ yet- _

 

And yet it was quick, decisive, one movement that had Wash breaking off from their rough kiss, one movement that attached him to Doc’s neck, that had Doc’s breath catching and his hands tangling in Wash’s hair- careful, careful, always careful. Never careless, not even in times like these, when a fire felt like it ran through his veins with every beat of his heart and then Wash  _ bit him _ in just that place, and Doc whined.

 

Pulled him back with gentle tugs to his hair, caught his eyes for a second, grey meeting brown before he was pulling him close again, trying to keep his hands roaming and their mouths busy and move them at the same time and Wash laughed. His laugh was light. It made Doc feel like he was floating, like that time in college when he’d taken weed, and all he wanted to hear was that sound, forever and ever, wanted to sear it into his core but instead he smiled around the hickey he was sucking into Wash’s neck, tugged him towards him. 

 

They stumbled at points, and somewhere along the way Wash’s shirt was given up as a lost cause but that was alright, that was just the way they needed things to be right now and when they hit they bed they fell into it with barely a separation, with barely a pause because yes, yes this wasn’t their normal but the point of this, of sex, had always been to have fun. To enjoy it, and god did they- they always did. It was always enjoyable, from the first, and when Wash ran his hands up Doc’s sides they shot electricity through his nerves, left him with stars in his veins and such a love in his heart he thought he was going to burst. 


	6. something so tragic about you (don't you agree?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok one I really love Hozier, chapter title is a just a mixed around lyric from Hozier's From Eden
> 
> two i've?? been super drinking my love locus juice recently, idk what it is but I just suddenly got super attached to his chara and my way of understanding a character is typically to write them breaking down or feeling extreme emotion so I can try to piece together how they think and act. This I'd like to finish eventually, if only so I can say I wrote some serious meta for once in my life but for now it's just... here and idk where to take it so

Sometimes, when the night is too encompassing and the world feels as if it’s separate from him, Locus remembers. 

 

Small things, sometimes. Things that leave him with an old ache of nostalgia in his chest, an ember that just won’t burn out behind his eyes no matter how hard he rubs at them.

 

He remembers children’s laughter, the dresses his sisters wore to church on Sunday. He remembers all the green he grew up on, the farm and their animals, the way his abuela would hum in the hazy evenings in the heart of summer. 

 

Locus remembers what it felt like to be scared of the dark, to laugh as one of his sisters chased a frog. The careful art of bug-catching. The feeling of family quilts, worn soft with age and use, the spices he was taught to add in estimated amounts. He remembers the feeling of sunshine on his face. He remembers when his body ached with exhaustion from laughter, from running and chasing and climbing instead of repetitions, of battle wounds and impact.

 

He remembers the family he had once loved more than anything.  

 

Those nights, he often ends frustrated. Unable to sleep.

 

Locus had given that part of himself up long ago. He is a machine. He does not have family. He does not have memories.

 

(He ignores the tears that trickle out, digs his fingers into his wrists until even his short nails draw blood. Machines do not cry. Machines are not traitors. Locus is not allowed that.)

 

Other nights his mind is less kind than Locus is to himself. It brings up memories he would happily bury, ones that belong deeper than any vault or bunker he’s ever been in. 

 

These are the ones about gunsmoke, screeches and bangs and such vivid, vivid red. Locus does not want to sleep after these, does not want to do anything but forget. 

 

Locus cannot forget. He isn’t sure if that’s because he’s made himself into a machine, or if it’s because there’s still some part of him, small and hidden away, that clings to being human in any way it can. Neither of those are options he wants to face right now, so he files them carefully away in the compartment of his mind for later.

 

(He still remembers all their names. There is no use to keeping them, but they won’t go away.)

 

He ends these nights like any other- silent, with forced clarity and a calm understanding. Locus is a machine, he  _must_ __remember that, and machines that have faults have no purpose to remain.

 


	7. liquor liquor lips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was absolutely gonna be like. my challenge to myself to actually write something explicitly explicit for once in my life bc my style of writing never tends to it. I know where I was going with this bc I'd marathoned all of boxonthenile's logrimmons fics: grif was gonna walk in on his bfs fucking and just be like 'oh cool' and dirty talk both of them like his life depended on it. 
> 
> Also simmons w a rope kink AND a thing for Locus being taller than him? more likely than youd think

Despite what some might say, their relationship wasn’t all too complicated. Not when it was broken down to its essentials, down to them as they were, to their core components, even. It was simple; it was a lot like any other relationship, except instead of two bodies, people, souls, to share in their love there was three.

 

In their essence, they were three. Grif, Locus, Simmons. A trio, unconventional by every means but working in their own way and that was all that mattered, really. They worked. They settled and worked and as a trio they were good, they were happy, they were complete. 

 

Of course, it hadn’t started like that; originally, it’d just been Grif and Simmons. They couldn’t place where, exactly, it had begun but at some point between Simmons relying entirely on scholarships and part time jobs and Grif finding the safest place to put his sister through high school and full time jobs, and that was just it. They were a set, a pair, a duo, nobody questioned it.

 

They hadn’t questioned it, even.

 

Took them nearly three years and when it did happen, when Grif stopped worrying too hard and Simmons pushed past the blocks in his mind and that gave Kai nearly a hundred from the betting pool and that was… it. There wasn’t a difference, really, because their friendship had been based so heavily and it just… worked. It worked and it made sense, and it’d always been like that except now they could kiss, could hold hands and not question it when they fell asleep against each other and that was what they did, was how they were.

 

Five years later and slowly, steadily, Locus joined, too. He’d integrated at some point, come into their lives when Grif had been mugged, had lost blood and time and saved him and when Simmons had broke down, had cried and shook and fallen apart at the sight of someone so important he’d stood quietly. A solid presence. A grounding hand on his shoulder, and just like that he’d been pulled into their friend group, past transgressions left where they were at the door. That was how he’d ended up with them.

 

A part of them. Grif and Simmons had become Grif and Simmons and Locus and slowly, like all things did, even that had melted away. With time it’d changed to Dexter and Richard  _ and _ Samuel, with familiarity it’d become Dex and Rich and Sam, and with comfort they’d simply become three.

 

And it was such a lovely number, such a lovely thing, especially in moments like this, in soft thoughts and heated touches and this hadn’t been at all where Simmons had meant to take this but god, was he not complaining.

 

It’d begun like plenty of nights did, with Grif on an elongated shift and while Simmons was, like usual, on call it didn’t mean Locus was preoccupied with anything in a strange twist. That hadn’t been the intention, of course, if Simmons were to be asked about it later, but that wasn’t on his mind now.

 

A simple moment in the kitchen, a simple distraction to wait for the kettle to come to a boil. Simmons had nestled against Locus’ side and accepted the arm that had wrapped around him in turn, had hummed out a soft ‘hey’ and pressed a kiss to the underside of the taller’s jaw and kept at it, soft little things that he had to acknowledge in some unconscious part of his mind drove Sam a little bit wild, pushed at him in just the right way and really it came as no surprise when things changed. 

 

It wasn’t too long after that before they’d flipped, any chance of a quiet evening of picking apart the plots of soap operas tangled easily on the couch gone in exchange for this: for the way Locus would flip them, move Simmons into the corner of the counter and himself and tilt his face up (up! That was a thrill that never quite left Richard, that to kiss one of his boyfriends he had to look up!) and crowd him just enough to be the right side of rough because Sam knew that was what the redhead liked. It became Simmons hands digging just the right side of too much into the hard lines of Sam’s back and melting into the handling, putting that type of trust in his partner already and the rest was usual.

 

Typical. Almost as normal as the other route this night could have taken.

 

And soon, too soon, they’d found themselves ignoring the pop of the kettle, focusing instead on the pop of a different bottle, the sound of their combined weight hitting the bed and pressing back and on the way Richard had asked so nicely, so prettily to be tied, please, even though this wasn’t a planned out scene and while Sam wasn’t about to take it too far, he wasn’t averse to the idea of keeping his boyfriend’s hands so nicely restrained. 

 

And Locus was… well, he wasn’t an  _ easy _ man by any means, but he could very well be persuaded to be a  _ weak _ man and that was the important part, the part that Richard knew was being exploited now, and it’d been with barely a moment’s notice, barely a pause in their kisses that Sam had reached  _ somewhere _ that Simmons had stopped caring about the specifics that he should know by now, had given up thinking on the details because this was one of very few times where he wasn’t trying to keep pace with his brain because when Sam came back it was with one of those small smiles and Richard’s heart had fluttered anew.

 

“Tell me,” He’d murmured, soft and sweet and punctuated with a kiss just under Simmons’ ear as Locus had begun to wrap the rope around his wrists, delicate and soft and  _ just _ tight enough to bite in the way that Richard loved so much. 

 

Simmons had smiled, big and wide and open and already slipping from his mind as he’s nodded, had nosed against the juncture of Sam’s neck and said “Good, great, good-- please?” And he’d had such a softness in his tone that their pace had resumed like before, slow and familiar and good for the both of them, heat and slickness and that breathy gasp that neither ever quite knew how to tamp down on.

 


	8. even though they weren't so sweet ( one )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was the start to that zombie au I mentioned in the notes of??? one of my other grimmons fics. I'll finish that theatre one too, eventually, probably. 
> 
> Anyway, I had this planned out entirely but I do wanna finish it so for now that's gonna stay in my barebones doc for it > u o
> 
> I started this like uhhhhh a year? two years? one or two years ago now

Doc was unsure of where to start; he knew this had to be recorded, but he didn’t quite know how, or when, to start. 

 

Logically it would be by stating the basics, the way the world had been  _ before _ . Before he was Doc, and not Frank, or DuFresne, or any name thereof. Before Washington, because he didn’t know if there was a before for him, what David had been to Washington, or why he seemed so broken up about his thoughts. 

 

Before Donut, he knew; they’d only arrived at the oddly thriving farm that day, and as safe as they could claim they were now, Doc (he had been wrong about that sticking, hadn’t he?) doubted he would have time to write it all in. 

 

Before Church, the ferocity in the man’s eyes as he’d told them that he  _ wasn’t _ infected, that his wounds were  _ healed _ and that he needed to find  _ her. _ He needed to know if she was alive. Needed to know if he could help, and how he’d seemed to understand. 

 

Before Tucker, and the desperate hope he’d held as he pushed past Wash to grip Doc’s own shoulders, the shudder in his breath that had hinted at tears when he’d spoken, just a word, just “ _ Please, _ ” and the growling creature, safe and cared for in the back portion of his truck’s cab. 

 

Before the Grifs, and the panic caused by their rambunctious arrival, the fear that had gripped both men as they’d convinced Kai to roll up her shirt, to peel back the rank bandages. The panic that had ensued upon the limited knowledge Doc had had in treating the young woman, and the moment in which they thought they’d lost her, that more than the initial infection had taken hold.

 

Before Lopez and Sarge, the protection they’d both felt despite Wash’s doubt; who wouldn’t feel safe in a bunker owned by a veteran and the mechanic he’d worked with, prepared for anything from nuclear fallout to . . . . Well, this?

 

And, of course, before Washington had been. . . saved wasn’t right. Doc was not a saviour. He was a biologist, and he didn’t save people. Tested felt as if it fit better, but that sounded too fantastical, too much like a creation made by a mad scientist as the lightning struck and thunder shook the ground beneath them.

 

The dark haired man took a breath, and blinked slowly at the paper in front of him, eyes sliding from blank sheets to the messy, folded scribbled writing beneath them, before he shut them behind round glasses.

 

He needed sleep. He needed to not think. 

 

But he wouldn’t do either, because he was not the only one he had to think about anymore; and especially at this time of night, for as dim as the candles (he felt the light would be too harsh if it was electrical, too hard on the eyes) cast light that wouldn’t stray too far from the circle of the heavy desk, he knew he wasn’t the only one awake.

 

It wasn’t unusual, either, and not for lack of space -- in fact, the attic room Washington and himself shared was plenty adequate in terms of space -- but simply force of habit. Force of thought. Force of  _ being. _

 

On one of the two old beds, quilts folded primly beneath him and barely crinkling beneath the man’s weight sat Washington. 

 

...

 

_ David? _

 

No. Washington.

 

He rarely slept as much as he should, despite Doc’s constant badgering, though not for lack of trying. Instead, he found it easier to watch; it was more soothing than any breathing exercise could be, to watch someone work. To watch Doc ( “Are you alright?” He’d asked, eyes wide and hand warm on Wash’s shoulder; why did he notice that? Why did he understand that? “Hey, hey-- don’t be alarmed,” Soothing. Quiet.  _ Warm. _ “I’m Frank, alright? You’re gonna be alright.” ) work was nice, it reminded him of warm things, of things that make him human.

 

Had  _ made _ him human.

 

Wash blinked. He didn’t want to think, right now.

 

Doc shifted in his seat, and grey eyes watched through the dim coziness of the farmhouse attic as he began to write, as he’d adjust his glasses or, undoubtedly, nibble at his bottom lip to debate on words.

 

Wash knew Doc -- knew  _ Frank _ \-- and he felt that warmth of humanity seep in when he watched him. It was soothing. 

 

It reminded him he was alive, and that he didn’t have to think about what he’d done, about the blood and screams, and the way Maine had  _ looked _ at him and--

 

Doc stood up. Wash stopped his train of thought, glad for the chance to avoid it.

 

Doc collected papers, sorted them into a neat stack, and blew out all but one of the candles. Wash watched as each one went out.

 

One. 

 

_ North. _

 

Two.

 

_ South. _

 

Three.

 

_ York. _

 

Wash blinked hard, palms coming up to press against his eyes, breath becoming shaky because he  **_refused_ ** to think about it. He  **_refused_ ** to let it consume him again, to not go down without fighting, and suddenly he felt  _ hands _ on him, and a soft wail escaped him.

 

Wash was not able to refuse what he had done. 

 

Doc simply didn’t want the man to pull his own optical nerves out.

 

Wash kept his eyes shut even as shaking hands were lowered by steadier ones,  _ warmer _ ones. He didn’t fight as those same slender hands stayed there, covering his own jittering fingers and reminding him he was alive. 

 

Doc kept his eyes trained on Wash’s, waiting until they opened. Waiting until this passed, until the candle began to burn into a stub, began to snuff itself out. Only when the shaking stopped, the pale fingers beneath Doc’s own tanned ones began to curl together did he stand up, knees protesting at the movement after so long, and face nothing more than patient.

 

Wash only wished that he didn’t possess the same warmth Doc did, even as he watched the man remove his glasses, crawl under his own quilts and shut dark eyes. Wash wished he felt as human as his roommate appeared, head leaning back against the old wall behind him. 

 

Wash wished he didn’t cause so much trouble for the other, because really Doc didn’t deserve it; Doc was too kind to help him. Too caring to ignore him. Too  _ human _ to not help.

 

Wash sighed softly, eyes shutting their cool grey from the quiet world around them without his noticing.

 

Wash hoped that his dreams would not be what they usually were.

  
  



	9. the world was built for two ( two )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this follows that zombie au, I have like four oneshots I was gonna establish before setting the main plot in motion as a group piece. 
> 
> This one isn't so much a summary as it is Tucker's origin and Reason for getting involved bc I thought that was a fun way to flow them all in until I realized they were way too short oneshots to do that cause I'm a fool but whatever. I'll figure it out, I just wanna share it

The first time that Lavernius Tucker had heard of zombies, he had been eight on the playground of his school. Immediately, he’d adored the idea of stories or games set in a universe where the undead returned, where people tried to survive against the odds. When people had nothing left to do but place their faith in those they kept with them, with the knowledge that they would protect each other.

 

The first time he had heard about being a father, he had been barely nineteen, and on the phone with a distraught ex of his who had just found his number. He had been torn between being delighted and terrified, and he cut down on the ambitious college courses he’d selected. An agreement had been made, and Tucker picked up more odd jobs than he ever had because he was going to be a  _ father _ and no matter how unplanned the news had been, he would be an  _ amazing _ father.

 

The first time he’d held his son (Salvatore, he’d been told, but Tucker thought that something shorter would work, that Salvatore shouldn’t listen to the shit about his name too) Lavernius had, just like when he was a child, adored something so fully he had no fear in the future. Soon enough, Salvatore had turned to simply ‘Junior’, and like his own nickname, it had stuck.

 

And the first time Lavernius Tucker lived through an apocalypse, he had felt his adoration for fiction begin to sour. 

 

It had been a normal day, it really had; he’d gotten about four hours sleep, picked up a sleeping Junior from his neighbours with a tired smile of thanks, and woken them both up at six-thirty sharp. It had been breakfast, then, while Junior got his stuff all together for the school day ahead of him, and Tucker woke himself up with far too much caffeine while handling eggs and toast. 

 

A ruffle in the tawny, curled hair of the third grader and they’d been on their way, from the run-down but cozy one bedroom apartment to the similarly run-down but well-loved old truck. The route was usual, from the finicky light on Bravo Street to the songs the radio played amidst the static. Nothing was new, not even Junior’s questioning about when he could sit in the front of the always open divider. 

 

_ ( “When you grow some more, buddy.” Tucker would always state, a fond smile on his face as he adjusted to mirror to see the sullen face of his son in the back. “But daddy,” Junior would whine, shifting the Hello Kitty backpack Tucker had fought the school to allow him to bring. “I’m grown enough now!” ) _

 

And then it hadn’t been normal. It had been weird, and scary, and Tucker remembered telling Junior to hold on, to not be afraid and it had become a blur. A blur of motion and sounds, and the cold realization that he  _ knew _ what this was that had crept into his spine and next thing he knew he was shoving stuff into a bag, necessities and the few sentimental objects he kept while Junior held tightly to the doorframe of their bedroom, big brown eyes wide with fear.

 

_ ( “Daddy,” Tucker remembered his son asking him, small voice shaky and tanned skin pale. “Are we going to stay home today?” ) _

 

_ ( Tucker had stopped, and bent to pull the child into a tight hug. “Yes,” He’d said, because he knew that Junior knew this wasn’t as simple as that. “We’re gonna stay home, buddy.” ) _

 

The first time Tucker had felt his heart break, really truly break, had been when he’d seen his son bleeding, tears forming in his dark eyes as they looked towards his father.

 

_ ( “Daddy,” Junior had said, holding out his hand to show his father the injury, arm shaking and big eyes wet, full of fear that tore Tucker apart to see on his baby boy’s face. “It bit me.” ) _

 

Tucker lost count of how many times he’d bundled his son up like he had then, from when he’d first taken him home from the hospital, to when he was barely able to keep his eyes open after movie-night, to when he went to school in the early morning chill of winter, and now as his head lulled against Tucker’s chest, breath uneven and skin taking on a tint that looked nothing like it had even when he’d caught that flu last year. 

 

And when his son had looked up at him, eyes dry from dehydration and nothing but resignation in his eyes, Tucker had known he was lying to him when he kissed his son’s head, told him it would be alright. That he’d take care of him, that Junior didn’t need to worry. He suspected his son had known, too- Salvatore was too smart for his age, had always been such a bright little kid.

 

When his skintone greyed and his eyes yellowed, and Junior couldn’t even keep his head upright when his father spoke to him, Tucker cried. It felt like his chest was breaking, like there was a pressure there that had simply exploded. When Junior had gone still, Tucker had pulled the bundle of blankets close. He’d been quiet, the tears still running freely down his face but he’d simply thought. Clutched his child and tried to reason out what he would do.

 

 He wondered if he was to blame, if maybe he could have stopped this, could have fucking protected his son like he’d promised to the moment he’d learned of him nine years ago. If maybe this was some kind of unfair penance for all the shitty choices he’d made, being taken out on his son because the universe had a twisted sense of humour.

 

Tucker wondered if he just wasn’t supposed to survive, if he was supposed to watch Junior die and follow suit. If he was supposed to give up, if he was supposed to just accept it, but Tucker had never been the kind of man to just accept it. 

 

Tucker wondered if he could fix this, if somewhere there was some way he could bring his child back to him, to hear him call out in the amazement that had always been in Junior’s tone when he thought something was cool. If he could hold his son again, pull him tight to his chest and laugh and laugh and hear his baby boy laugh with him again, if he could  _ fix _ this, like he’d said he would. 

 

But he’d promised.

 

Tucker had promised his son.

 

Lavernius Tucker had promised his son that he wouldn’t let anything harm him, that he’d fix this and Tucker didn’t break promises.

 

By the time Junior was starting to stir again, soft growls and weird, jerky motions, Tucker had made a decision. He knew what he’d do, even if it didn’t work out. 

 

Bundling his son even more tightly in the blankets, Tucker picked him up. Brought him to the truck, set him in the back. Gently. Carefully. Got in the front, took a few minutes to breathe. Twisted the key.

 

Tucker became determined. He didn’t protect Junior to stop this, but he could still protect him after. He could still take care of him, and try to fix it. He didn’t have to do anything  _ but _ protect his son, because this was the fucking apocalypse and Lavernius Tucker didn’t need to listen to anyone try telling him he needed to let go of his son, because he was  _ determined.  _

 

He wasn’t going to lose his son.

 

Plus, he figured, as he closed the divider between the front and the back of the cab, the soft growls from behind him almost comforting, the very least he could do was have some faith in the world. 

 

He knew his child would.


	10. your tired eyes are kinda nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is two unfinished entries into that same zombie AU i had goin on, Donut and a last, group-establishing Doc one with his own background thrown in. I only got as far as here though, but I figure if I put these out then I'll want to finish them because people have seen them
> 
> Donut is a farm boy so therefore he's jacked and I don't make the rules
> 
> Doc is trying his best, he really, truly is

Donut didn’t really know where the start of  _ it _ was. He hadn’t really been too concerned with time when things had started, and while he liked to think he wasn’t bothered by it now, he guessed that was a lie; it bothered him now, not knowing how long it had been. 

 

Sure, he hadn’t noticed the radios going static, hadn’t really thought much of it when the cable went out, and people? Well, Donut didn’t see many people anyway. Especially not after the Incident, and especially not now, when people weren’t really people and Donut was better off on his own.

 

Or mostly on his own- the animals were still there. He still had enough seed set aside for them, enough for next spring’s planting and avoiding going into town meant he didn’t  _ really _ need to put his hearing aids in, meant he could exist without other people. Isolate himself, turn it into a sabbatical or something. Learn to carve wood or make tables or something. Turn his sadness into some energy, put his mind somewhere else, just like Mama Jules had always-

 

No.

 

No. Nope. No thank you. Donut was  _ not _ getting into that right now. Not again.

 

But to get back on track… to say Franklin had  _ noticed _ when things went down would be false. He hadn’t realized. Hadn’t cared. 

 

God, what a thing to say, he’d been too depressed to notice the literal end of the world happening.

 

 

 

\- - - -

 

 

The day things had gone to hell, it had been rainy. 

Doc remembered that because it had made the roads slower, his hair stick up more, and the quiet buzz of the city all that much more of a comfort. He had done nothing out of the ordinary, had done nothing strange, which he almost felt was wrong; if the world was going to change so drastically within a span of a few hours, he should have done something different. A new route to work, perhaps, or a different angle to how his glasses would sit. 

Hell, even switching which wrist his watch sat on, or which pocket he left his phone in would have helped, but no. No, instead he had done things as he always had, from the watch to the phone to the angle his glasses sat to the way he flipped the staff I.D on his lanyard up to the scanner at the entrance of the research lab.

Everything had been so normal, so  _ typical _ , until suddenly it simply hadn’t, and now the way Doc saw typical felt years away from what he once had. 

In reality, it hadn’t even been six months since that day, but time had a funny way of dragging on, even when it was short. 

And now, here he was, huddled in the back of a van, Wash driving while Sarge yammered on, and Lopez said his pieces in return. He was supposed to be sleeping, but he’d never done well at that in cars, and Frank doubted he would now, half a year into the end of all things. They always had too much movement for him to sleep in, made him feel far too anxious, and once that had been an unfounded anxiety, but now it was something anyone who could survive lived with.

It was raining today, too, and if that wasn’t something that allowed him to think, Frank didn’t think anything would. But the question here was, did he  _ want _ to think? He’d thought so much about the whole thing, about what would happen in the far future, about the near future, the now and the then and, and, and-

Doc didn’t really want to think anymore. He didn’t want to keep himself in his head, and as they went over a pothole he took the chance to move, to shift a little. Pulled his sweater a little lower on his palms, and fixed his glasses. Looked to the window of the van, to the raindrops hitting the glass and watched them for a moment before he pulled himself upright, gripping the seat backs to stabilize himself.

If he’d been at home, Doc thought with a twinge in his chest, he’d probably have curled up in an armchair, blankets and sweater warm and soft. He’d have tea, chamomile and mint, and probably a book. Or maybe he’d have called home, had a conversation with his mother if it was a Thursday. Was it Thursday? Doc missed Thursdays. 

He missed a lot of things, but if he thought about it, he missed the quiet the most.

 

The kind of quiet that was filled with connection, with people- 


End file.
